


A True Hero's Legacy

by RenegadeNiffler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Hogwarts Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenegadeNiffler/pseuds/RenegadeNiffler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amos Diggory spent years trying to teach his son all of the values that would carry him to greatness, and then came one formative moment when his message really began to sink in.  He never could have imagined how much he would regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True Hero's Legacy

Hazy blue light flooded the still kitchen where Amos Diggory raised a teacup to his lips, barely noticing the cold sweetness that trickled down his throat. He ran a leaden hand over his swollen ruddy face, then glanced up at the clock. Its hands stood at half past four. It had been six days and seven hours since he had first looked into the lifeless grey eyes of his only son; an image that now seemed to be etched into the back of his eyelids in striking detail. He had slept two, maybe three hours last night. Sleep only came now by force, when his body could simply bear no more activity.

The floorboards creaked over his head followed by soft footsteps plodding down the upstairs hall. Cordelia was stirring. Amos rose from the kitchen table and headed out the back door. He had not been able to look his wife in the eye properly for days, certain that her hollow gaze was not dull enough to miss the shame in his own. So he started out just as he had done nearly every morning that week, each time promising himself that it would be the last. Yet here he was again, his gelatinous legs carrying him down the path that lead to the village. The sun was just beginning to slip up over the horizon as he walked along, his mind sinking into this morbid ritual.

The road was several miles long, and even in the cool of the morning droplets of sweat beaded up all over his face. A sharp stitch tightened in his side. His legs began to burn but he was powerless to stop them going forward. He carried on as soft green hills rolled past him indistinctly, like a waking dream. At last he reached the small wooden sign marking the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole and his eyes moved automatically from it to the cemetery, just visible in the heart of the village.

The old buildings had an eerie abandoned feel this early in the morning, but Amos was thankful for the solitude. His aching feet lead him on through rows of headstones that had stoically borne witness to centuries of loss there in the quiet churchyard. They finally came to rest at a freshly covered plot in the southwest corner. There he knelt.

The tombstone itself was tall, gently rounded at the top, but looked awkwardly empty. What words could there possibly have been to encapsulate the magnitude of this tragedy? So his eyes locked on the only two that had seemed to come close, carved there in the smoky marble, “Beloved Son.” _His_ beloved son, with all his dreams, gifts and talents rotting away under the ground, dead. _Dead_ , the word tore at him with such a potent finality that he cried out. With this surge of grief came the searing reminder that this was all his fault. Amos choked back another wail with an anguished grunt, throwing his head down on his knees. All the years he had spent instilling in Cedric the values that would lead him to greatness only lead him to his death. Memories of Cedric's childhood started to flash through his mind, fleeting moments when he had spoken to him about things like hard work, loyalty and honor. The images replayed themselves over and over in his mind, all the things that over time sculpted his son into a champion, the same things that pushed him into the hands of Voldemort.

He would never forget the look of hungry determination on Cedric's face as he left the Great Hall to start the Third Task, and the last words he had spoken to his son. _'Don't worry Ced you'll show them. They'll all see who the real Champion is now.'_

What had it all been worth? He hadn't even gotten the hero's burial that he had deserved. Cedric had all but been shoved into a vanishing cabinet by the Ministry. Amos had received an official letter of condolence offering a vague sort of apology for his son's “tragic accident”; otherwise his death had been ignored. No front page account of his final acts of valor had appeared in the _Prophet_ , not even a brief obituary in the back. All Cedric Diggory had gotten for years spent listening to his father's advice was a quiet family service, and a life barely lived. 

One memory in particular needled at him with increasing tenacity...

 

***

 

Amos had just finished changing out of his work robes when he wandered into his kitchen, drawn by the delicious scent of roast chicken wafting through the house. “Is dinner nearly ready?”

Cordelia shut the oven door as her baster floated down onto the counter. “About ten more minutes.”

Amos drew himself a glass of mulled mead, grabbed the newspaper and started into the dining room when he caught a flash of green behind him. He turned just as Cedric was stepping out of the fireplace. The pocket of his shorts caught on the iron poker in its stand, which crashed to the floor causing his mother to yelp. Cedric winced, “Sorry Mum.”

Amos watched as his wife strode over to him. Whenever his son stood next to Cordelia he was fondly amazed at how much he resembled her. Though the boy's face was flushed from exercise Amos could still see Cordelia's high cheekbones there. Just as he could still see the clear grey color of her eyes through the tawny hair that clung to his son's face.

“It's all right, just please be more careful next time,” she corrected him as she started to give him a hug. “Oh Cedric, you're filthy. Go upstairs right now and wash up before dinner.”

Cedric scampered out of the kitchen with a quick, “Hi Dad.”

Amos tried to return the greeting but only got as far as opening his mouth before his son had vanished up the stairs. He turned back to Cordelia with a puzzled look, “Where has he been?” He followed her into the dining room where she began to set the table.

“Oh, he was invited to tea at the Weasleys'. Molly sent an owl this morning, it was—er—well one of them had a birthday today. She said she's got twins who will be starting at Hogwarts the same year as Cedric; she thought it would be nice for them to meet.”

“Well that was nice of her.” Amos sat down at the table while Cordelia finished her work. Just as she was setting the chicken down Cedric returned and took his seat. He had missed, or possibly ignored, a few spots on his face and arms while washing, but they were few enough that his mother held her tongue.

“So, Cedric I hear you visited with the Weasleys today,” Amos inquired cheerfully.

Cedric glanced up from the mashed potatoes he had just scooped onto his plate and shrugged. “Yeah. It was Percy's birthday.”

“Did you have a nice time?” Cordelia chimed in.

“It was all right. We had tea and cake. Afterward we played some quidditch They were all really nice.”

“And did you remember to thank Mrs. Weasley before you left?”

“Yes Mum.”

Amos eagerly jumped back in to the conversation, “Do all of them play quidditch?”

“Actually Percy was the only one who didn't. Oh, and their little sister.” Cedric paused with his fork halfway to his lips and cringed, “She was so angry she knocked Fred off his broom when he told her she couldn't play.”

Amos swallowed a large bite of chicken. “How did you fly? Did you show them how it was done?” he chuckled tapping Cedric's arm with his fist.

“I flew okay,” he muttered.

“Come on, you don't need to be modest with me. I'll bet you flew circles around them,” he pushed.

Cedric shifted in his chair. “Well—I did put in a few good goals.”

“Atta' boy, Ced” he gloated ruffling his son's hair. “Just think, you'll be starting school next year. If you keep improving like you have been you'll be playing for Hufflepuff in no time.”

Cedric met his eyes with a slightly apprehensive look and asked, “Do you really think so?”

Amos searched his son's serious face for a moment before reassuring him. “Of course I do. Just keep working hard and you'll be great, you just wait and see.”

Dinner passed by pleasantly enough, although Cedric seemed a little pensive through the rest of it. He asked to be excused as soon as he was finished eating, and went straight up to his bedroom. Amos wondered what was on his mind, but figured he was probably just thinking about which quidditch moves he needed to practice, so he let him be.

He helped Cordelia clean up a bit then stretched out on the sofa to read the newspaper. She finished her work and then joined him in a nearby armchair with her copy of _Witch Weekly_. Cedric had not made a sound since retreating to his bedroom, and the stillness in the house was starting to make Amos a little uneasy. Ordinarily the lad would have come down by now to read with them, ask for a game of chess, or head outside for an evening fly. At the very least he should have heard an occasional exploding snap card, or small feet puttering around up there. Yet none of these things occurred as Amos read through Ministry scandals, world events, and quidditch results. By the time he finished an article on the last page about a crup breeder who had lost control of an entire litter in a play park full of muggle children, he decided to go find out what his son was up to.

He walked slowly up the stairs, half-expecting to hear a hurried attempt to conceal something, but the only sound was that of his own feet. Finally Amos reached Cedric’s half open door to find him seated on the edge of his bed, forlornly tossing a quaffle up and down. Cedric started as his father stepped into the room and fumbled the quaffle which thudded onto the floor and rolled to a stop at Amos’s feet. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing this outside?” he asked bending over to pick it up.

Cedric straightened up on his bed. “Sorry Dad, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Oh, it wasn’t bothering me. I just thought you’d like more room to practice,” he explained handing the quaffle back to Cedric who held it on his lap and stared down at it. “That’s a nice quaffle. Is that the new one your Uncle Edgar sent you?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, it is.” He began to trace his finger over the ball’s stitching.

Amos sat down on the bed next to him, and after several seconds of thick silence he tried again, “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, son?”

Cedric finally looked up at him, his lips bent into a weak smile, “Nothing’s wrong Dad.”

Amos nodded. “I see. Just fancied spending a quiet evening staring at your floorboards, eh?”

He forced out a strangled chuckle as he continued to struggle to look normal. “No—er—well—I'm just tired. Think I might go to bed soon.”

He heaved a fatherly sigh, “Well, if you’re sure. I usually find that I feel much better if I talk about my problems, you know, get them off my chest. But since you’ve got nothing _on_ your chest I’ll just let you get ready for bed.” Amos started to stand up.

“Dad?”

“Yes son?” He settled back down.

Cedric seemed to be wrestling with something behind his eyes, and for a second Amos thought he was going to say “never mind”, but he continued, “Do you… Have you ever done something to—erm—to try to impress someone and ended up looking like a fool?”

“Oh, a few times I’m sure. Are you thinking about something specific?”

Cedric went back to staring at the quaffle, biting his lip. 

Amos leaned in toward his son. “Did something happen at the Weasleys' today?”

He looked back up nervously. “I told you that we played quidditch after tea right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was next to last to be picked for a team. And those Weasleys, they all fly so well, I just wanted to show them that I was good too.”

Amos tipped his head to one side. “Aren’t some of those boys a good deal older than you?” Cedric nodded. “Well, there you go son. They’re bound to be a little better than you; they’ve been playing a lot longer.”

Cedric heaved a sigh. “They were a _lot_ better. Even Fred and George were hard to beat. Plus I felt kind of weird because they were all so used to playing together. Anyway, at one point Bill and I were taking the quaffle down the field, I passed it to him to get around George, and then at the end we both had clear shots but Bill passed it back to me so I could score the goal.”

“That’s great. I bet they saw your talent then.”

“It was a good shot,” he conceded then bit his lip again. “But there’s more. Later on, when the game was tied, the same sort of thing happened, only this time Bill passed it to me to get it down the field. I got to the goal but had a really hard shot because George was getting ready to block and Ron was ready in the goal. Bill signaled for a pass but I,” Cedric paused, swallowing uncomfortably, “I took the shot anyway. George grabbed the quaffle just as it left my hand and took it all the way back to score. Then Mrs. Weasley called us inside. We lost the game and it was all my fault,” he finished with a miserable punch to his thigh.

Amos chewed on his son’s story for a second before gently inquiring, “I take it you’re not very proud of the way you acted.”

“No.” He growled in frustration, “Why did I have to try and show off like that?”

“Tell me, Cedric, would you be feeling the same way right now if you _had_ made that shot?”

He looked surprised by his father’s question and cocked his head thoughtfully. “You know… for some reason, I think I would. I mean, I don’t think I’d feel any better.”

“Very good,” he praised him with a pat on the back. “That means you understand the real lesson here.”

“What do you mean?”

Amos ran a hand through his beard before continuing, “You see, I’ve no doubt that you have all the talent you need to achieve anything you set your mind to—and I hope you’re confident in that too--but you’ll find in the long run that success is worth nothing if you don’t get there with honor. Honesty, integrity, respect, fair play. _Those_ are the things that are really important. If you achieve greatness at the expense of others you may find that you can take no joy in it; you will have lost your self-respect. And whatever respect others may give you, you will know in your heart that you don’t deserve it.

“If you remember to be fair in all that you do, then you will receive abundant respect that you will know is well earned. And you might also find that, more often than not, the people around you will treat you with the same sense of fairness and respect that you showed them. Decency, integrity, honor. _That_ is what makes a true champion.”

Cedric scrunched his brow and shifted on the bed.

“Does that make sense, Ced?”

“Yeah.” He frowned into his lap, nodding contemplatively. “Yeah, it makes a lot of sense.”

Amos laid a hand on his son's shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You have plenty of time to show that you won’t repeat your mistakes. Just don’t ever forget what you learned today.”

Cedric met his gaze with a formative sort of look, as though a deep sense of conviction was forming inside him. “I won’t Dad. I _won’t_.”

 

***

 

Amos threw his head up toward the tranquil summer sky, tears searing down his cheeks. It had seemed like such good advice at the time. Now it was painfully clear that there was not a drop of wisdom in any of those words. _'Why did I have to push him? Why did I never think to tell him to keep his head down, or that there's nothing wrong with being mediocre? Greatness. Honor. What good was any of it?'_ If only Cedric hadn't listened to the fool's advice he had foisted upon him, he would be at home right now enjoying his summer and looking forward to his last year at school. The guilt washed over him afresh, and the agony of it writhed in his stomach causing him to wretch right there on the grave. _'This is all my fault,'_ he silently mourned as he coughed the last of the sick out of his mouth. _'My fault that he never got to finish school. My fault that he will never marry, never have a career, never...'_

Unable to bear the graveyard any further he began to stumble back up the path out of the village. The sun had risen fully now over the green landscape where songbirds called back and forth to one another, but Amos's mind registered none of it. He was fully consumed by the memories of his own stupidity that continued play in his mind's eye.

By the time his house came into view he had reached a point of desperation where his mind was wildly casting out for some way to go back and fix this. Surely there was _something_ he could do to make everything right again. He remembered that he would be returning to work in a few days. Perhaps he could steal a Time-Turner and warn his younger self of what would come, maybe write Cedric a letter, do something, _anything_ that might repair the damage.

With his chin pressed down against his chest he crept back in to the sunny kitchen. Cordelia was just setting out a platter of scrambled eggs in between platters of french toast and bacon. They exchanged a quick nod before sitting down to what was sure to be another silent meal. All week she had prepared quantities of food that were absurd for two normal people, let alone two people with scarcely half of their usual appetites. Amos managed to take in a few bites of eggs and bacon before setting his fork down in surrender. Cordelia cleared the table, set the dishes in the sink, and headed off to start the day's chores. She seemed to have taken on the approach of dealing with her grief through housework. Her days had been spent washing walls, and dusting behind furniture in corners that hadn't been touched in months, as though she thought she could scrub the pain out of her soul.

Amos listlessly rested his forehead in his hands, dreading another empty day. Something whooshed in through the open window and he looked up to see a stocky barn owl standing in front of him. He mindlessly took the letter from its leg and opened it. It was a letter from one of Cedric's classmates talking about how much he had learned from Cedric and how much he would miss him.

> _...He was the best quidditch captain Hufflepuff ever had. I will never forget the things he taught us about hard work and good sportsmanship; they are lessons I will carry with me always..._

Three more owls had arrived before he had even finished the first letter, and over the next half hour they kept coming one after the other until envelopes were cascading off the sides of the table. Each letter was the same as the last; it seemed almost as though the whole of Hufflepuff house had written to tell him how much his son had meant to them.

> _...He was always the nicest prefect. I probably wouldn't have found a single classroom my first year without him. He was even late to some of his own classes because he was showing us around the school..._
> 
> _...His commitment to excellence was so inspiring to me. I won't ever forget him..._
> 
> _...Cedric was unfailingly just and honest. He truly lead by example..._

At first they had little impact as he dully skimmed through them, but after about twenty or so something began to fall into place in his mind. Here were almost a hundred people who had been touched by Cedric, been moved by the outstanding person that he was, the person his father had helped him to become. For the first time since his son had died, Amos allowed himself to think about the life his son had lived, instead of the one didn't get to. Fresh tears began to prick at his eyes as he straightened up the letter that had fallen limp in his hand, and reread the last couple of lines. He had raised a son who had been “unfailingly just and honest,” and deep within himself he knew there was value in that, no matter when his son had died. He had left a true hero's legacy with all of the people who knew him.

The undeniable truth of this notion acted on him like a warming charm. He chuckled awkwardly at the mingling of relief and sorrow inside him, and his tears poured out in a steady flow until it became as though he was laughing instead of sobbing as he cried. With a mighty sniff he steadied himself just long enough to call out, “Cordelia! Cordelia, come see what's arrived!”


End file.
